Looking for myself again and also trying to lose her
Dispatches from the Middle of the Night
More than once, I’ve felt the night slip closed around me— not a comfort, exactly—& looked up into a sky I cannot refuse.
Sedimentary
Red and cream rock crumbles in my hand. It asks me: stone or sand? but it doesn't demand.
early morning in the wash
where the road runs out the depth of choosing begins
Reflections on a Sparkling Year
This year, "sparkling?" Yes, and.
Tara K. Shepersky 